He doesn’t mean . . . I shake my head. No. Not a chance. I can’t go out there, I’ve seen the sharks and jellyfish, and my friend died out there.
No way I am going anywhere with him after last time.
Without warning he dives below and twists behind me, and I spin, panicked. This is it. He’s going to block my escape back to shore.
He freezes, hovering, head on one side.
A muffled sound, a voice. It sounds like Iona. She must have followed me into the lagoon. I grind my teeth, eyes clinging to Sea Boy, as if I can hold him there with the force of my gaze, because I don’t want him near me, but I do need Iona to see him and know I’m not crazy. If only she’d just shut up . . .
‘Aster!’ The voice is closer now, accompanied by splashes.
I meet Sea Boy’s eyes for less than a second before he spirals backwards out of the reef gap, mounts the manta ray, and dissolves into the blue beyond.
Sam rides the long route home from the hospital along the towpath, thinking. It’s a sunny day and there are lots of dog walkers out, unlike when he met Nygard here. Granda is out of intensive care and stable, but the tumour on his lungs has grown. They’ve said he should be strong enough for chemotherapy in a few weeks’ time, but he looked like he’d aged twenty years in a few days and it terrified Sam. He is on the list for a lung transplant but it’s unlikely. The chemo won’t save him, the tumour is inoperable. All it can give is time. Sam can’t imagine life without Granda; he’s too young, too fit, too full of energy. Granda is the one who met Sam from school when Mum and Dad were working, who always had time for him, who taught him to ride his bike. It is impossible he won’t reach sixty.
Sam has to do something.
Nygard’s therapy shrank the tumour. Nygard said if he found Iona he could produce more of this Marisogen without delay. Sam clicks though the gears, standing up on the pedals to go faster. He doesn’t know what to do, what to think. He’s still shaken from the burglary. What ordinary thief would only steal his old laptop in a shop full of new bikes? There’s no evidence to prove the doctor did this, and they found no fingerprints at the shop after the break-in. He swallows, feeling hollow and sick.
He wants Nygard’s trial therapy for Granda more than anything.
Maybe stealing his laptop shows Nygard’s commitment to finding those girls and Iona, because he truly has discovered a cancer treatment that works. Or Nygard didn’t steal the laptop at all. Sam could give Nygard Poppy’s phone, tell him where he found it, hope it leads him – somehow – to the girls and to making more Marisogen.
Back in his room, Sam opens Mum’s laptop, which she’s lent him until the insurance comes through to replace his own. He retrieves the girl’s memory card from his desk drawer and slots it into the side of the laptop.
He is struck with an idea. Mum has awesome design software; he’s played around with it before. He opens up the program and uses it to flick through the photos of the girls at the camp again, trying to find clues he hasn’t noticed, anything that suggests where they planned to go. He lingers on the dimmest one and fiddles with the sensitive controls: brightening, raising the contrast, sharpening. He can see it is the inside of a hut and there is a laptop open on a desk with a black screen. He trims the photo to show only the laptop, and enlarges the image. There’s a small yellow rectangle in the corner of the screen. It looks like one of those tiny sticky notes, like he’s used in English lessons to mark places in the class book. He zooms in and waits for the photo to adjust and sharpen. There’s writing on it; faint, in pencil.
Neatly handwritten numbers.
-164.394531
He scrambles for a pencil, jots them down then types them in. No results match. What could it be? He checks the photo again to make sure he has the numbers right, then leans back in his chair, scrubs his fingers into his hair and stares around his bedroom. His eyes catch on the world map on the wall.
He types in the number followed by the word longitude then latitude. Nothing. If it is coordinates then there should be two sets of numbers. But it means something, someone wrote it down for a reason.
Sam jogs downstairs to his mum’s office, where she has a globe in the corner.
-164. He traces the -165 longitude line with his finger, down from the North Pole. It touches Alaska then travels through the North Pacific and South Pacific. For the majority of the path of his finger, there’s only open ocean. But it isn’t empty ocean. There are hundreds of small, unnamed islands.
He racks his brain, trying to remember what he learnt in Geography. Meridian. He takes the stairs two at a time and types in ‘164 meridian’ and it comes up with a list of the places the line passes through, the same as he saw on the globe. The number is very specific, to six decimal points. He starts to search again and then stops.
He could go to someone with access to this kind of information, with experience of searching for people.
Nygard.
Sam thinks of the girl’s phone left on the beach, the footprints. What if Iona found out about Nygard’s side project, the Marisogen trial, and stole his work, taking Granda’s chances of recovery with her?
Something stopped him from handing over any information to Nygard last time he saw him, but maybe he was being too suspicious.
Granda might not have much time, and the thought of losing him makes Sam feel hot and frantic. Sam opens his email. If he gives Nygard this information, he can’t risk him disappearing for ever without treating Granda, so he needs to be smart. When Nygard and Iona were working together they must have chosen that area of forest for their camp because it was so remote. Neither of them wanted what they were doing to be made public. That’s the only insurance he’s got.
Hi Dr Nygard,
I have new information I am willing to share with you. Let me know when you can meet, as soon as possible. Sam
Sam shifts on the bench, watching the towpath; one hand on the handlebar of his bike, lips moving as he rehearses what he is going to say. He has learnt the longitude number by heart, in sets of three. It seemed the safest way.
164.
394
531
Should he mention the stolen laptop? He still hasn’t decided when Nygard strides up raising a hand in greeting, then sits down on the bench next to him.
He raises his sunglasses. ‘Hello, Sam. I was very pleased to hear from you.’
Sam turns to look at the doctor. It’s warm today and he’s dressed in chino shorts and a grey polo shirt. The breeze ruffles his hair, sun highlighting the silver streaks on either side. He looks ordinary, clean-cut, reliable.
‘I have some conditions, before I share anything,’ blurts Sam.
‘Whatever you need, Sam,’ says Nygard. He leans forward, his blue-green eyes on the side of Sam’s face.
Sam grips the handlebars of the bike tighter.
‘First, that you treat my grandfather at the first opportunity you have. The tumour is coming back, we don’t know how long . . .’ Sam is surprised by the clog in his throat.
‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Sam. Of course, if the information you give me leads to what I’ve been looking for, that will be the first thing I will do.’
Sam nods.
‘Second, that you take me with you,’ says Sam.
A pause. Nygard’s forehead wrinkles in concern. ‘I’m sure you understand that will depend on—’
‘It’s not up for discussion. I have to go with you and make sure whatever you find comes back to Granda.’ Sam swallows. He forces himself to meet Nygard’s calm gaze as he says the part he’s been rehearsing.
‘If you break these conditions then I will make sure the information I have becomes public knowledge, and I don’t think you want that.’
Nygard’s expression doesn’t change as Sam speaks, but then he breaks into a sincere smile. He offers his hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, Sam shakes it. Nygard’s grip is firm.
‘I look forward to working with you, Sam.’
Isan
d the wood of the rudder, sawdust tickling my nose. After we’d done the heavy lifting and constructed the frame of the canoe, we made quick progress and are almost finished. It’s a basic version of the traditional, twin-hulled sailing canoes used by the Polynesians, but it is . . . beautiful. Mostly because it represents me getting to Poppy. We are now waiting on the weather. Today the sun is breaking through the clouds and the white-topped waves froth gently against the reef rather than spewing plumes of white foam into the air. My eyes catch on the tree trunk with its nine dashes cut into the bark, for the nine days we’ve been here. Iona has named the ring of islands Halo Atoll. This is Halo South and we need to get to the bigger island, Halo West.
My fear for Poppy continues to shout louder than my fury at Iona. I’ve buried my feelings about what our aunt did to us very deep, so I can cope with her company as we work on the boat every moment the stormy weather allows. It helps that the three of us are so occupied by keeping the camp going and by boatbuilding, we barely get a moment to rest. At the fireside in the evening Beti works through my curls with coconut oil and a two-pronged comb she carved herself. Chatting about new recipes for kelp and the practicalities of keeping firewood dry stops me screaming ‘How could you?’ at Iona, over and over.
My stings have now healed well, although there is a patch of swirling scar tissue on one thigh and the opposite shoulder, where the skin is shiny-smooth and a lighter colour. The scars make me feel strong. I don’t care if they are permanent; it’s a good reminder to steer clear of jellyfish. And that I am more difficult to kill than I thought.
Before the rains came I could see nearly across the width of the lagoon, but now there is barely a few metres’ visibility. It doesn’t stop me going out there as often as I can, and I’m beginning to associate the water with calm again, rather than danger and grief. Since the morning I saw Sea Boy, when Iona found me swimming at dawn, she sleeps lightly and wakes as soon I do, so I can’t get back out there alone and try contacting him again. There was no point in telling either her or Beti that I saw Sea Boy again, they won’t believe me.
I sigh, and raise my head from my work, smoothing my hand over the wood, hot from sanding. The air is warmer today, and I strip off my poncho. Since the storms we’ve been wearing the thin, sandy-coloured ponchos that were also in the seemingly bottomless pit of the back pocket of the life vests. The ponchos come almost down to the ground. They are soft on the inside and waterproof on the outside and have a hood with a drawstring for really bad weather. We’ve needed them.
Iona looks up from where she is sanding the other end of the boat.
‘Weather has brightened up,’ she says. ‘I’ll take a look.’
I nod. Iona lays her tools in the hollow inside the hull. I don’t follow, but I do watch her leave. I know she’ll walk to the rocks at the far end of the beach, like she does every day. She has a sort of straight-backed gliding walk. Mum could walk around the house, doing chores, with a book balanced on her head. She’d have Poppy and I in fits of laughter. I hate it when Iona and Mum merge in my mind, but I can’t always stop it.
You think far too much.
At least it’s Poppy’s voice this time, not Mum’s. If something happens to Poppy, I’ll never have spoken to her about Mum, we would never have remembered her together.
I can’t think like that. Not about Poppy, not even for a minute. I rub the bark roughly, concentrating on the ache in my shoulder, the smell of the hot wood, the grating sound. Please let today be the day we get to you, Poppy. We’ve got barely anything to pack and nothing to stop us. I’m coming for you, Popstar.
We leave the following day. The island retreats into the distance and my hair whips back from my face. I shake the sail as Iona taught me, thrilled by the speed when the wind catches. Iona makes a hand signal from where she sits at the back of the central platform, working the tiller, steering. I allow the rope to slide past my gloved hands a little, slowing us down. We are wearing the grey bodysuits we arrived in to protect against sunburn, and the gloves to guard against the ropes. The life jackets have been stripped of tubes and the pockets emptied, and we wear those too, to act as flotation aids if we fall in. Our knives and machetes are strapped to our belts. Beti and Iona wove baseball-style caps from dried grasses, which we’ve jammed on our heads to shield against the glare from the morning sun on the sea, strings tied under our chins to stop them blowing off.
We must look utterly weird.
Beti tries to tip her cap up and when she nearly loses it in the wind, I release a burst of laughter. It is a strange feeling. None of us have laughed much since we arrived. But now our canoe is sailing and we are on our way to find the others.
The sails were by far the trickiest part of the boat. Iona told us she packed thin, high-tech sails into the equipment trunk that was dropped on the other island. We’ve had to improvise with a traditional method, making them from woven grasses treated with resin. They rattle and the wind whistles through the gaps between the weave but we are making excellent time, tracking along the same sandbank I followed to the mangrove island. The waves break along its line so Iona holds a course slightly inside it, towards the deeper, dark water in the centre of the atoll.
We pass the mangrove island, giving it a wide berth.
‘I can’t believe you swam this far on your own,’ says Beti.
She takes the rope from me, just as my arms begin to ache. I stare at the mangrove roots tangling over the rocks and the few palms spiking from the centre.
‘I can’t believe it either,’ I say, spotting the place where Sea Boy and I balanced on the mangrove roots.
The sail makes a creaking sound and I grab the rope above Beti’s wrist to loosen the tension.
Halo West is now racing towards us and the trees along this side of the coast rise up from a rocky shore. Like our island, this one has a lagoon facing the centre of the atoll. I put my hands over the peak of the cap and stare until my eyes water. My heart is almost in my throat and thumping hard.
There is a possibility they aren’t there, Halo West is only the most likely option. But what if none of us ended up where we were supposed to be? I roll my tense shoulders and dismiss the thought.
I join Iona at the tiller. From here the other islands of the atoll are visible; hazy mounds on the horizon. It’s good to see the opposite side of the island ring, makes me feel less isolated.
‘How deep is the centre?’ I say.
‘The water is dark, it’s hard to say,’ says Iona.
I nod, thinking of Sea Boy. I could talk about him now; it doesn’t matter how crazy Iona and Beti think I am now the boat is built and I’m here, about to find my sister.
I could talk about Sea Boy. But I don’t.
We reach the end of the rocky shore that faces our island. On the other side is the bay, the West Island lagoon. Beti takes the sail again and I sit at the front, spray soaking me, desperate to catch the first glimpse of their camp. Disappointment bursts in my chest as we round the spur of rocks and the curve of the bay spreads out in front of us, pristine and deserted.
‘Can you see anything?’ says Beti, her words whipped from her mouth by the wind.
I shake my head.
She lets out the sail and the boat slows.
‘They may have set up camp further inland,’ says Iona. Her voice is flat and her face expressionless. I don’t like this.
This lagoon is teardrop-shaped, sheltered by a hook of sturdier reef on the round side, with a flat sandbar enclosing the other end, getting shallower at the point. We beach the boat on the wide sandbar and tug it over into tranquil lagoon waters only a metre or so deep. It’s a natural harbour. We remove our hats, grab our snorkelling gear and fan out; it’s quicker to swim than wade through the warm shallows. I’m the fastest swimmer but the others keep up, because I stop frequently to slide up my goggles and scan the empty beach.
The sand looks smooth. No sign of anyone having been here.
I don’t want to consider what thi
s means.
Iona wades out of the water without turning, and fear rises to the surface of my skin like a toxic sweat.
Beti follows her, panting, and points back at the lagoon. ‘You said they’ve got supplies here to start the oyster farms, the mariculture,’ she says. ‘Wouldn’t we see the ropes across the lagoon?’
Iona doesn’t reply, marching ahead.
My breaths are too shallow and too quick and my legs are trembling as if they’ve taken on a life of their own and don’t want me to go any further. I count in my head, force air through my nose on the inhale. Three in, six out. I can’t panic now. I have to be strong for Poppy.
Callum died.
What if they all died?
Don’t think about it.
We reach the centre of the bay and the three of us are silent. The sand is scattered with signs of life; seaweed, and tiny shells.
Not a footprint in sight.
Iona jogs up the last of the beach, crunching her footprints deep into that horribly unblemished sand. If they aren’t here, they are on another island. They must be. But I can’t persuade myself it is true. Horrors race through my mind too fast, like an old-fashioned movie reel. They all got sick and died. They drowned on the way to shore, floating in the sea in Iona’s stupid prototype life vests. Torn apart by predators. Whatever happened to Callum could have happened to them. I mouth the words: ‘Please. Please. Please.’ Not Poppy.
Numbness creeps through me and although it holds my panic back, I know it will only be temporary.
I follow Iona into the trees. There is no natural clearing like there is on our island. It is shady as she leads us deeper, drawing her machete and hacking at the thick creepers and ferns. We’ve only ventured this far inland on Halo South to find the wood for timber. How can the others be in this tangled undergrowth?
Secret Deep Page 13